


This Feeling That Remains

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Babies, Dwarf Courting, Engagement, F/F, Falling In Love, Femslash February, Misgendering (very brief), Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bala moved to the Blue Mountains when she was a hundred, and very quickly fell beard-over-boots in love with the princess of Erebor--and was thoroughly shocked when the feeling appeared to be mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Feeling That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to Femslash February--because when you really think about it, there's no PROOF that Dis's partner was a man.... Oh, and I'm assuming that Dwarves as a species don't have huge amounts of sexual dimorphism, and if cis female Dwarves are capable of growing beards than they certainly had lower levels of estrogen than cis female humans, so Bala is capable of using natural estrogen supplements if/when she wants to and that just WORKS okay.

Her father was a miner and her mother a leatherworker. On days when she didn’t have lessons, she would accompany her mother to an enormous hall that smelled like tannin and beeswax, and stood beside the low table as she watched her mother’s thick, work-roughened fingers carve impossible fine lines into the pieces she crafted. She could watch for hours without moving an inch—but on one day, her mind was restless, turning over the same irritating fact over and over, until she could stand it no longer. She waited until there was a pause in the adults’ conversation, and tugged on her mother’s shirt.

“Amad,” she said. “Why does everyone think I’m a boy?”

Her mother’s fair eyebrows lifted in surprise and her hands stilled at her work. For a moment, she did not answer.

“Are you not, my treasure?” she asked, as she returned to the belt she was crafting. She worked slower, but still the movements of her hands were sure, and Bala found herself gazing upon the leather in abject admiration.

“Of course not,” she said. She leaned on her elbows and scuffed her feet against the floor. “Will you tell them I’m not?”

“I will, dearest.”

That night, when her father arrived home, her mother pulled him aside and murmured something in his ear. Bala looked up from her wooden dolls and tried to listen, but her mother had spoken in Khuzdul, of which she had only been taught a few words. Her father looked surprised.

“Are you sure?”

“That is what she told me.”

“Well, he—”

“She.”

“ _They_ are only a child, still…”

“A child who knows the name her Maker gave her, and so knows her own heart better than either of us.” Amad smirked. “I think you’re just wounded because I was right. _How_ many times did I tell you I was carrying a girl?”

Her father groaned.

“Thirteen years of gloating, I got, and you’ll get the rest of our lives. Such is my lot.” Then he shrugged off his coat, shaking rock-dust on the floor, and raised his voice to a bearish roar as he called out “And where is my unutha?”

Bala leapt up happily and barreled into her father, shrieking with laughter as he growled playfully against her shoulder and hugged her tight.

-

She wasn’t there when the dragon came.

Her father had kin in the Iron Hills and had gone to visit once the roads had been repaired from the spring rains, and Bala went with him, leaving the mountain for the first time in her life. She was in her grandmother’s parlor, playing with her cousin Kela on the floor, when the news came. Her father wept and tore his beard and she had cried without knowing why.

She was young. She missed her mother with a child’s wholehearted longing for home, but as the years passed she grew happy in the Iron Hills, and the tragedy seemed very, very far away.

-

“Come back with me,” Kela urged, and Bala pushed back her heavy gold braids with a sigh.

“Help me carry this, will you?” she asked, and Kela plucked three bolts of fabric from her arms as they tramped through the muddy streets.

“Think about it, cousin. The Blue Mountains are all settled now and perfectly comfortable; there are several small cities and towns nearby, and you’ll have family there. Amad told me, before I left, to get you back with me if I could. They’re worried about you.”

“My father wanted to stay here,” Bala said with a frown.

She pushed open the door to the house she had lived in nearly all her life—half made of grey bricks, the other half dug into the stone and earth of the hill—and deposited her purchases on the nearest table as she bustled around, lighting lamps and throwing open the windows. The house really did feel too big sometimes, without her father, his sister, their cousin, and their veritable hoard of offspring to fill it.

“He didn’t want you to stay here _alone_ ,” her cousin corrected gently, and a gentle hand rested on her shoulder. “Bala, come back with me. You would thrive in Ered Luin, I know you would. They need folk like you—sturdy and practical and _kind_. You would be loved and appreciated as you deserved.”

“By you if by no one else, because I do your chores for you,” Bala commented wryly, and Kela grinned.

“It’s not _my_ fault you work so fast and get bored so soon. But come, tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Bala turned to look at her cousin as she considered the prospect. She and Kela had grown up together, as close as sisters—folk often thought they _were_ sisters, as a matter of fact, for they were both short and pleasantly chubby and had good thick curly beards like all their family, though Kela’s hair was more mousy brown that golden. It had been difficult, very difficult, to watch Kela and the other cousins pile all their belongings into their packs and march off west… but it had been the only choice, really, because her father was staying.

She had not realized his health was so poor. She had not known that miner’s cough would take him from her a mere year afterwards, and that she would have no one to comfort her in her grief, but Bala had always been strong, and she withstood. She lived on her own, and made friends, and tried to court once or twice before nosy busybodies sought out the males she fancied and scared them off the prospect of a wife who could not give them children. There were few enough females in the Iron Hills and she had quickly decided none were meant for her, and so she had settled down to her leather work.

Yes, it was a bit lonely at times… but it was _her_ life and she liked it well enough.

“I _have_ thought about it,” she admitted. “But I’ve thrived very well on my own here, as far as I can tell. It’s so—so _far_ , Kela! And I’ve only your word that I would like it. I might arrive and find I can’t stand a single dwarf there except for you.”

“Come now,” Kela laughed. “You’ll have the rest of the merry brood to keep you company, at least. And who knows; the Maker might have something special waiting for you in the Blue Mountains. Maybe you’ll marry Thorin,” she teased. She plucked a yellow ribbon from the basket Bala had set down and looped it around her hair with grace. “There! You look queenly already.”

Bala giggled and tried to retaliate, like she had when they were children, but her cousin danced out of reach.

“I’ll think about it,” she promised. “If nothing else, I wouldn’t want to disappoint my royal husband, would I?”

Weeks after her one hundredth birthday, Bala joined her cousin’s caravan heading west to the Blue Mountains. Since arriving at the Iron Hills, she had never left them; never had she taken the road that led them within a scant few miles north of the Lonely Mountain. She viewed the peak as they passed and felt a vague sense of loss.

-

The first time Bala caught sight of her king was late one night, in the marketplace, when she and Kela were going home laden with groceries. They walked down the street and heard shouting, and Kela gasped and stopped dead, staring at the entrance to the tavern, where Thorin was shouting at someone. He was tall, Bala thought, with long dark hair and a short beard, and he would have been handsome if he wasn’t yelling. She couldn’t clearly see the person he was yelling at, because they were facing away from her, except to see that they, too, had dark hair and was nearly equal in height to the king—and, from their posture, was shouting just as fiercely back.

“I don’t give a damn what you want!” Thorin bellowed. “From now on you will have an escort—”

“I will _not_!”

“You will! If you insist on treating your life so cheaply then you will be tied to one who knows its value.”

“Do you think me so _weak_ ,” the other dwarf spat, “that I need a guard night and day, from whatever monsters you see in the shadows? I can wield my own blade and fight my own battles and Dwalin has better things to do then play nursemaid!”

Kela surreptitiously pointed at a dwarf standing behind Thorin’s shoulder, looking warily on the argument but doing nothing to stop it. Bala nodded her understanding.

“ _You nearly died_.”

“I was not harmed! And it will not happen again, it was only pure chance that the beast wandered by the road—”

“Do not make excuses to me, because there are _none_. If I ever hear of you being so _unspeakably_ foolish again—!”

“You will _what_ , Thorin?” the other dwarf said mockingly. “Have you forgotten that I am grown?”

“Have you forgotten I am king?”

The dwarf’s hands twitched towards their body and, incredibly, both the king and his friend flinched. Bala wondered who this person was, who could cause such hardened warriors to be wary, and she tilted her head in curiosity. After a tense moment, however, the dwarf’s arms relaxed. They ran a hand through their unbound hair and let out a short sigh of irritation and defeat.

“One day, brother, I am going to stick a knife in your arrogance and give it a good sharp twist, and then _I_ will be the one who gets to use that argument.”

“And until then?”

“… I will take a companion with me when I venture away from the settlement. A companion of _my_ choosing.”

The words were spat out from behind clenched teeth, but they were good enough for Thorin. He nodded stiffly and then held out his arms. When the other dwarf did not respond, he raised one eyebrow.

“Agreed, namadith. Come, are we not finished?”

With another sigh (less angry and more petulant, to Bala’s ears), the dwarf stepped forward and clasped Thorin’s arms, then headbutted him rather harder than was absolutely necessary. A few short words passed between brother and sister, too low to be heard by their audience, and the crowd of dwarves began to disperse. Bala remained, curiosity still raging, until the female dwarf released the king and turned to go about her business.

She sucked in her breath. The dwarf—the princess—had black hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders, near to her waist, twisted into three thin braids around her face. She had the sharp nose and fierce brows of the line of Durin, and eyes as dark as deep pools of indigo ink. Yet even as she turned away from the conflict a line was smoothed from her forehead and a corner of her slim lips lifted in an easy, clever smirk. She wore blue trousers and a blue coat, trimmed in white, and moved through the streets like a crashing wave.

As she drew even with Bala and Kela, she noticed Bala’s stares. She raised an eyebrow in a question, and Bala managed a weak smile in response, hoping to convey admiration rather than judgment. The princess’s smirk widened into a smile and then—she  _winked_. Bala’s face flooded with heat as the dwarf passed her, and shock paralyzed her, preventing her from following the dwarf as she walked away.

“That,” Kela said with some amusement, “was Princess Dís.”

-

The air was crisp with the smell of ice on snow, and Bala breathed deeply as she walked the rarely-used paths around the dwarven settlement. The path wove through the trees, and was marked more by animal footprints than Dwarvish ones—the snow crunched heavily beneath her boots with each step.

As such, she was surprised to hear the approach of another, coming from the opposite direction. It was early morning, and most would just be rising from their beds or approaching workrooms and forges, not wandering the backwoods of the mountain. She was even more surprised to see the princess turn around an ice-slick oak tree and then pause, looking at Bala with an appraising eye. In the back of her mind, she was grateful that the cold had already made her cheeks pink, so perhaps her embarrassment was not so obvious.

“Dís, daughter of Thrain, at your service,” the princess said with a courtly bow, and Bala brushed her snowy gloves against her skirt nervously.

“Bala, daughter of Bel, at yours and your family’s,” she said in as proper a voice as she could manage.

“Early, isn’t it, for… whatever it is you’re doing?” Dís asked, approaching in a casual manner. She stopped four feet from Bala and perched on a conveniently-located fallen log, crossing her ankles.

“Collecting furs, my lady,” she replied. The words came easier this time, and she gestured at the half-full pack slung over her shoulder. “I set the traps last night, and did not wish to leave them too long…”

“Very practical.” There was a beat as the woods were silent and their breath rose in white clouds. A twinkle entered Dís’s eye. “Aren’t you going to ask what _I’m_ doing out in the cold so early?”

“I don’t think it’s my business, my lady.”

“Good—because I don’t have an answer! I just like the snow, I suppose, and I’m meant to be in the forge all day anyway and it’s tremendously hot, so I think the cold will do me good. As much good, I think, as starting my day in conversation with such a lovely and industrious dwarrowdam such as yourself.”

Bala’s mouth fell open in surprise, but she couldn’t think of anything to say; she looked at the ground and smiled, and heard the gentle crunch of approaching feet.

“You look upset; I am sorry if I spoke too boldly,” Dís said in a gentle voice, and Bala looked up.

This close—there was only six inches of space between them—she realized that the princess was hardly taller than her, and younger than she had thought, too. Her lips were turned down as her eyes flickered over Bala’s face, and she looked much less intimidating so close. Bala took a breath to steady herself and gave a more sure smile.

“You did not, my lady. I was only startled… it is not every day that one must accept a compliment from royalty.”

Dís laughed, a sound so warm and throaty that Bala thought it might melt the icicles around them.

“If you would rather be insulted, you should seek out my brother—me, I’m a terrible flirt, Balin and Thorin always say so. Though I can have the terrible family temper when I mean to.”

“Yes, I’ve seen,” Bala said with a chuckle, and Dís grinned.

“That was a wonderful row, wasn’t it? Pity I lost, but I do love it when Thorin and Dwalin flinch like that. Speaking of which, I ought to have a companion with me now, in case I run into any more rogue wolves in the trees… would you care to join me, Bala daughter of Bel?”

She held out her arm curiously and Bala felt her heart flutter—she was _very_ inclined to take it.

“I’m afraid I would be useless against wolves,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m dreadful with a knife, my lady, unless my opponent is a bit of leather or a good meal.”

“Then I must be good enough for the both of us,” Dís said with such a charming smile that Bala reached up automatically and rested a hesitant hand on the princess’s elbow. Dís’s smile widened and she covered Bala’s hand with her own, guiding her into a more firm grasp. Her clothes were well-made and plush to the touch, and in the crisp air the scent of her hair oils made Bala sigh. “Besides, I could not in good conscious allow an unarmed dwarf to see to the deadly and important task of squirrel-collecting without a guard. What would you do if a warg had decided to feast on your catch?”

They began walking and Bala fixed her eyes on the path before her. She walked straight and tall, buoyed up by the implacable energy of Dís beside her—and lifted her chin archly as she replied, as flirtatiously as she could manage.

“Perhaps I would seek out your brother.”

After a moment of startled silence, Dís ducked her head and began to chuckle. The sound rolled over Bala’s ears, warm and soft as the breath that bounced against her neck, and she thought _Oh that’s done it_.

-

After that, it felt like Bala saw the princess everywhere she went. The dwarven settlement was small, to be sure, but she wouldn’t have expected her path and Dís’s to cross as much as they did. The forges and the mines were all holdovers from Belegost that had been fixed up and thus sat close by or within the mountain, while the leatherworkers, weavers, and trappers all lived in wooden houses on the outskirts of the town, where they could hunt easily or tan skins without hearing complaints about the smell. She learned that Dís and Thorin actually didn’t live in the mountain but in a little house to the north of town, which was certainly closer to her own—but still, Dís must be taking very roundabout walks to run into Bala two or three times a day.

Not that it _meant_ anything, she reminded herself firmly one night when she saw Dís in the tavern. She was leaning forward and talking excitedly with a red-haired dwarf maiden who giggled at every other word. Dís was well-known for getting along with people. Everyone always said it was funny how the king and the princess looked near twins and acted like perfect opposites: Thorin could stir an army with a single war cry and a strong fist, Dís with a wink and a smile.

Bala couldn’t fight, of course, but she certainly _would_ if Dís asked. Along with every other dwarf in the Blue Mountains.

“Evening.”

Bala nearly spilled her ale as Dís fell into the seat next to her.

“Oh—evening, my lady.”

“Are you surprised to see me?” Dís asked, leaning close to be heard over the raucous sound of pub songs and loud arguments.

“Not really, only surprised you would leave your friend alone.”

“Mari? Alone?” Dís chuckled, and when Bala looked back, the redhead had indeed begun giggling at another enthusiastic monologue being delivered by someone else. “She’s drunk as a lark and friends with everyone in here. I thought I would rather come over here and make conversation with the loveliest lass in the room.”

If Bala’s face turned as red as dragon scales and she smiled for the rest of the night, it wasn’t because she thought such a compliment was anything special—and it _certainly_ was not because she felt anything special in return.

So she told herself the day that she heard Dís had been attacked on the road, and turned and ran towards Oin’s medicine room so quickly that her lungs fair burst by the time she barreled through the door.

“Not you, too,” Dís groaned the second Bala entered. She ignored her and turned to Oin, who was carefully stitching up a nasty gash on Dwalin’s arm.

“What happened?” she demanded of him. She knew Oin fairly well; he had helped her advise her on the differences between plants in the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains and had always been perfectly respectful. He would, she was certain, give her an honest and complete answer.

“I’m  _fine_ , dear,” Dís protested. “There’s no need to be upset—Dwalin was with me, and between the two of us we did quite well. Thorin’s already come to worry and bellow over us. It was ridiculous, really…”

“But you know why, don’t ye?” Dwalin growled suddenly, and Dís fell silent.

“Attacked on the northeast road,” Oin said in the ensuing silence as though he hadn’t heard them. “Eight Men thought two dwarves wouldn’t be any trouble—the worst of it is this here, and Dís’s got a couple broken bones in the right ankle. Three weeks until she walks properly, eight until she’s allowed to do any serious fighting or training. Keep an eye out, lass, will you?”

“Aye,” Bala said with a nod, and turned back to Dís.

Without a word, Dís opened her arms, and Bala sank into them gratefully. She didn’t stop to think of the implications until after she had already buried her face in Dís’s dark hair, but she brushed them away impatiently. She and the princess had been dancing around each other for weeks, but no matter what, they were at least friends, and friends showed affection.

Not that she gave a damn about implications right now. All she cared about was real, tangible confirmation that Dís was okay. A broken ankle was nothing compared to the damage that eight fighters  _could_  have done, and her mind had been a whirl of panic the entire way here. Dís ran a hand through her hair soothingly.

“Nothing to worry about, hm?” Dís said in a quiet voice. “I’m a tough lass, you know that.”

“Yes,” Bala agreed, clearing her throat. “Yes I know… I just—I wasn’t thinking. That’s going to scar,” she said suddenly, frowning at a cut on Dís’s cheek.

“My prodigious beauty ruined,” Dís sighed dramatically.

“It will be a lovely scar, but still—Oin, do you have any comfrey paste?”

“Blue bottle,” the healer said, gesturing in its general direction.

“You know healing herbs?” Dís asked, surprised. Bala nodded as she dabbed some of the paste on the wound.

“My father taught me. There—the skin will heal cleaner at least.”

“Thank you,” Dís murmured, and she caught Bala’s hand in hers.

Her fingers were warm, hot, even, and her gaze was uncharacteristically serious. Her eyes met Bala’s and remained there, for a long moment, and Bala felt a tingle in her cheeks. Mahal save her, would she ever stop blushing like a sixty-year-old every time Dís looked at her? The princess reached up and smoothed a thumb over the streak of red.

“I…” she began. “I made something for you.”

Bala’s heart nearly stopped. _It could be nothing_ , she reminded herself, but Dís’s eyes peering up at her looked so damn _hopeful_ that she couldn’t help but wonder.

“Yes?”

“It’s a knife. I know you said you had no skill with them, but I thought… it’s what I make best. Would you—”

“Dís,” Dwalin interrupted, and both dwarrowdams whipped their heads around, fury and horror in their faces. Dwalin was family, and he spoke for Thorin. If Dís was— if this was something _serious_ and he objected, it boded ill for what the king would think. The warrior pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “You are as big an _idiot_ as your brother, and that’s saying sommat. Is this really the best place to be doing this?”

“I wasn’t aware it was your business,” Dís hissed angrily. “Shut up! Bala…”

“Yes,” Bala said instantly. “Yes, I would accept it—here or anywhere.”

Dís turned triumphantly, ready to smirk at Dwalin, but Bala tugged at her beard and pulled her up for a kiss. She was feeling rather triumphant, herself.

-

Her name was Bala. She was the daughter of miner and a leatherworker, and she was courting a _princess_. A stubborn, brash, rather careless princess, to be sure, who argued with her brother too much and couldn’t stop flirting if she tried, but _still_. Bala couldn’t believe how quickly it happened; one moment they were exchanging the first gifts, and then the whole settlement knew, and then she was invited over to dinner at Thorin and Dís’s, where the King Under the Mountain sought to engage her in conversation and seemed pleased by what she said. Where she sat with Balin and Dwalin to watch as Thorin and Dís worked themselves into terrific rows that made both of them look horribly attractive.

“It’s good for them to fight with people who won’t let ’em win,” Dwalin commented idly one night. “Thorin hates arguing with me because I get bored too easily.”

“I don’t see the point of shouting,” Bala said with a shrug. “At least I don’t enjoy it like they do—I don’t think arguing with me would be as exhilarating as all this.”

“Mm. Just so’s you know, if the knives come out I’m shoving you in between Thorin and Dís.”

“Very brave, brother,” Balin said drily as he sipped his wine.

“Well Dís isn’t going to stab _her_. Can you say the same for the rest of us?”

It was, in a way, flattering, and Bala grinned into her own wine cup as she observed the fight.

Dís got along quite well with her family, as well. It had only ever been her and Thorin, for most of her life—though Balin and Dwalin had been constant figures, alternatively playing brothers and cousins and friends and devoted servants. She had never had anything like the chaos and comfort of an enormous extended family living in one household, and she adored it—so much so that within a month and a half, no one even batted an eye when a morose royal burst into the kitchen while they were preparing dinner. Bala, busy chopping carrots, looked up with a smile.

“I am going to cut out my womb and feed it to the pigs,” Dís announced.

“I don’t think they want it, dear,” Bala said, and Dís sighed as she fell into a chair. Various cousins chuckled in sympathy as they passed by, and Bala took a tin of tea leaves from the pantry. “Here,” she said, depositing it by Dís’s elbow. “Herbal tea—I made it myself, and Mali says it’s quite good.”

“I don’t trust Mali’s judgment, she thinks _Thorin_ is attractive,” Dís said immediately as she shot a skeptical glance at the tea. Mali, who was only fifty-two, let out a shrill giggle. “Does it work for you?”

“Thorin looks just like you, of course he’s attractive. And I don’t know; the Maker didn’t see fit to give me a womb, so I’ve never had occasion to try it,” Bala said calmly, though on the inside she was fretting. She had wondered, briefly, if she ought to inform Dís when they had first began courting, but it had seemed awfully _forthright_ to start talking about what was up her skirts the moment a woman gave her a flirtatious look.

“Truly you are blessed,” Dís sighed after only half moment’s pause. She looked up with her eyebrow crooked. “Since you cannot _guarantee_ that this miraculous brew will work on its own, can I have a kiss for comfort?”

Bala laughed and bent down to press a kiss to her forehead. Before she could back away, Dís wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned up, lips insistently trying to reach hers—but Bala only whapped her softly on the nose with the leafy end of a carrot.

“Not in front of the cousins—they’re horrible gossips, every one of them, and by the time we get dinner on the table, the entire town would think that the princess of Erebor was a flirt.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Dís muttered as she darted in for a quick kiss on the cheek, and then stood to begin fixing her tea.

-

Bala paced at the foot of the mountain for a long half hour, her heart thudding as she tried to sort out her thoughts. Winter had melted away to spring; the tang of summer was in the air. She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. Six months she had known Dís and five they had been courting. This was not, could not, be unexpected. The soft kisses traded in private, the laughs and possessive touches in public, the _looks_ , the ever-present caress of deep blue eyes upon her, they could not mean _nothing_.

Finally she took a deep breath and marched into the mountain, up to the large caverns that Dís shared with her brother. Dís opened the door and an instantaneous smile spread across her face.

“Morning, dear,” she said brightly, ducking down for a kiss.

“Good morning,” Bala said with a rather feeble smile as she stepped inside, wiping her palms on her skirts. Dís quirked an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong? You look… nervous.”

“I am. For a good reason.”

She planted her feet firmly in the ground and squared her shoulders, holding out her right hand, palm up. Dís’s lips fell open.

“Bala…”

“Dís, daughter of Thrain son of Thror, I offer to you my hand and my halls—for you are my choice, and I will be wed to you or to no other.”

“ _Bala_.”

And then she barely had time to register as Dís’s hand connected with hers, squeezing too tightly to be ignored, before there were lips on hers and a hand in her hair holding her close. Bala breathed out through her nose and smiled, almost _laughed_ in relief, and then Dís was laughing too and they had to separate because there was hair poking in their mouths. Dís’s hands came up to frame her face as they giggled like children, and Bala grinned.

“That’s a yes, is it?”

“Bala daughter of Bel, I take your hand in mine and welcome you to my halls, for you are my choice and I will be wed to you or to no other,” Dís rattled off as quickly as she could speak. “Now kiss me again.”

She obeyed without a second thought, and gave in to the inexplicable _delight_ of having the dwarrow she loved in her arms, so solid and responsive and alive that everything else faded. Dís’s hand cupped the back of her neck, hot against the sensitive skin and ran down her back, leaving gooseflesh in its wake and then, hesitantly, rested upon her side, fingers twitching against the underside of her breast.

“Can I…?” Dís asked, sounding for the shy for the first time Bala had known her, and Bala nodded.

“Everything I am and everything I have is yours,” she whispered against her lips, and Dís’s smile was blinding.

-

“Thorin,” Dís said a few weeks later, clearing her throat. Her arm was wrapped around Bala’s shoulders and she squeezed. “We’ve decided to move the wedding up by three months.”

The king looked up with such frustration and exhaustion in his face that Bala almost felt guilty—but her arm was around her fiancée’s waist and really she couldn’t keep a smile off her face if she tried. Thorin closed his book and rubbed the side of his face with a sigh.

“ _Why_ , Dís? Do you have any idea how complicated all of this is? Technically a royal wedding isn’t _valid_ unless emissaries from the seven kingdoms either attend or send their congratulations and a gift, and Mahal knows if messages will even _reach_ the Red Mountains by the time of the original date. Not to mention the amount of food that needs to be involved, and Dwalin will have to cut back his commission if he’s going to be there… and why in Durin’s name couldn’t you have told me two months ago?”

“Because I didn’t know I was _pregnant_ two months ago, you royal twat.”

For the first time, possibly, Thorin, son of Thrain son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, was absolutely dumbstruck, and Bala had the distinct pleasure of being to trace the progression of the emotions on his face, from confusion to shock to blinding happiness. He leapt up and yanked Dís into his arms without a word, shaking with silent laughter, and she smiled as she murmured something into his hair and squeezed him back.

Then Thorin turned to Bala and hugged her too, with such enthusiasm that she felt herself being lifted off her feet and she yelped, a rather undignified sound.

“You’re going to be an incredible mother,” he said in a low voice, and Bala’s cheeks were beginning to hurt from how much she was smiling.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Take care of her, please.”

-

They were married in late winter. Dís wore a scarlet coat covered in golden-thread embroidery and a leather belt carved with the seven stars of Durin, and Bala three silver rings, thirteen beads in her hair and beard, and a knife in her belt that she still couldn’t wield. Dís, at eight months pregnant, had never looked more beautiful, and all agreed that the king had never looked so happy as when he pronounced them wed.

Bala, for her part, was pink with happiness the entire time, and was teased mercilessly all day.

-

“You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?” Bala said for the eighth time as she reached up to tug Fili’s coat neatly into place. She dislodged two knives by doing so and rolled her eyes—as much as he took after her in looks, sometimes her eldest son was _entirely_ too much like Dís. “And keep an eye out for your brother and your uncle both.”

“You know I will,” he assured her with an easy grin.

“You’re the only one in this family I can trust to have any sense,” she joked feebly. “Just promise me you’ll use it.”

Fili stepped forward and pulled her into a hug—a bit of a prickly hug, but Bala ignored that and rested her cheek against his furs as she squeezed him tightly. He didn’t pull away and she felt his breath against her hair.

“I promise, mother.”

“Good,” she said with a firm nod as she tried to keep the tears in her voice at bay. She drew back and kissed his cheek, then Dís pulled Fili aside and Bala turned to her baby—her dark-haired, still beardless, four-inches-taller-than-her baby. “And _you_.”

“Me?” Kili laughed, and before she could say anything else he hugged her so tightly that he lifted her off the ground. _Too tall by half, this family_ , she thought crossly, and she smacked his shoulder when he let her go. “Don’t worry about me, mother, I’ll be fine. I’ll come back quick as a wink to escort you both home.”

“You’re as reckless as your mother and I will worry up until the moment you return… but I do not fear that you _will_ return, because you promised.” Bala reached up with one hand to cup his chin and held out a small, smooth stone, the perfect size to fit in her palm, engraved with Dwarven runes; out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dís extend the same thing to Fili, although she didn’t know what was written on his. This one read _Return to me_. “This is a talisman, inudoy—take it, and it will keep you safe. It will remind you of your promise.”

Kili took the stone from her hand, and for a moment he met her eyes and she thought about making him stay home because it was a _boy_ looking back at her, a child who was too young to have the fate of his people resting on his shoulders. Then he slipped the talisman into his pocket and smiled, and he was again Kili son of Dís, prince of Durin’s Line, capable of making light any burden.

“Thank you,” he murmured and kissed her on the cheek, and it seemed like only seconds before both boys were saying their final farewells and disappearing down the road.

Dís wrapped her arm around Bala’s shoulders and Bala leaned against her with a sigh.

“They’re good boys,” Dís said after a long moment. “We raised them right, and they are as strong as any of us… they will return.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “They must.”

And so they remained, staring after the road to Erebor.

**Author's Note:**

> unutha - greatest girl  
> namadith - little sister  
> inudoy - son


End file.
